


A Day At The Sheepshead

by relmer



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt Race, M/M, Protective Spot, annoying old ass men are annoying, canonverse, jack kelly knows things, some betting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relmer/pseuds/relmer
Summary: Race is usually the subject of getting soaked, but when it’s on Brooklyn’s turf, the King of Brooklyn gets involved.





	A Day At The Sheepshead

**Author's Note:**

> i gave up on doing the heavy accents so there’s just a bit in there.
> 
> also, i always imagine all of them as the live musical cast

Racetrack Higgins, one of the Manhattan newsies who sold the most papers, had recently gained quite a big reputation. He was from Manhattan, yet he sold on Brooklyn turf.

His spot was the sheepshead, where he both sold and gambled. The patrons there were fond of him, always up for betting, though they knew he would win. It was only when a new one came there that trouble really broke out.

“Extra, extra!” Race yelled, waving a rolled up paper in his hand. “Orphaned boy in Jersey adopted by the governor!”

“Are you talking about yourself?” a man asked as he walked up to the newsboy. He held himself high, fancy clothing decorating his body.

Race lowered the paper just slightly, but chose to ignore the man. “Thank you madame,” he said and tipped his hat to a younger lady who bought one of his papers. “Buy a pape and win back your money from your bets!”

His last few papers were bought, though the man who’d made a comment was still there.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked politely, taking the cigar out of his mouth. “The races are ‘bout to start, aren’t you gonna watch?”

“I’d like to know why exactly you’re here, selling...’papes’?” The man stared through a monocle — as if he couldn’t be more fancy — and a sneer pulled at his cracked lips.

“I gots good business here, and most seem to like me.”

“Go back to the streets your filthy ass belongs on.”

Race stepped back, putting the cigar back in his mouth. “Are you threatening me? The owners here are good friends o’ mine-“

A fist connecting with his face cut him off, knocking him back. Someone yelled, people quickly moving away from the pair.

“Hey!” a young boy shouted, rushing towards them.

Race recognized him as one of the Brooklyn newsies right before the man shoved Race down. His head hit the ground hard and the man began to kick him, Race trying to block each one with his hands. People were starting to scream, not sure what to do. Men who knew Race managed to pull the man off the boy.

The owner of the sheepshead was pointing a finger in the man’s face as Race’s head spun.

“You are to _never_ come back here again!” He pushed the man away, making sure he left before checking on the newsie. “What the hell happened?”

“The man jus’ attacked ‘im, sir,” the Brooklyn newsie from earlier explained. “Race was mindin’ his business and the man wouldn’ leave ‘im alone.”

The owner nodded. “Take him to get cleaned up. Make sure he’s alright.” He walked away, seemingly more snappy than ever before.

“I’m bringin’ you to the Brooklyn lodge,” the newsie said to Race. “My name’s Flip, by the-“

“Why not back to ‘Hattan?” Race mumbled as he was pulled up, his arm going over Flip’s shoulders.

“This is our turf, Racetrack, so I have’ta bring you there.”

Race let out a sigh. He let himself be led out of the sheepshead and down several alleys that blurred together as they walked down them.

“Almost there,” Flip assured him.

When they got close, a voice made them freeze.

_“What the hell happened?”_

Spot was standing a few feet away from them, blocking the door to the lodge.

“Someone attacked him at the sheepshead,” Flip answered slowly. “He wouldn’ leave Racetrack alone; he kept threatenin’ him.”

“Who?”

“He was new,” Race said, lifting his head. “Never seen ‘im before. He insulted me, then...” He didn’t need to finish.

Spot thought for a moment, studying the boy. “Flip, I’ll get ‘im inside. You get someone to fix ‘im up.”

Flip nodded, making sure Race wasn’t going to fall before he ran into the lodge. Spot helped Race inside, going slowly.

“You don’t have’ta treat me like glass,” Race mumbled. “I’m a ‘Hattan newsie-“

“Though you got your ass kicked by one person.”

“He was like, fourty, and caugh’ me off guard!”

Spot rolled his eyes, setting Race down on an empty bed. Flip came over with an older newsie, who was carrying a box.

“Attacked?” the newsie asked. Race noticed how their voice was feminine, though they had very short hair.

“At the sheepshead,” Flip said.

“Isn’t that his usual spot?”

“New guy.”

The newsie nodded. “I’m Stitch, by the way,” they said to Race. “The boys call me that because I always patch ‘em up.” They shot a look towards Flip, who looked away in mock-shame.

“My siblin’ always likes to make fun of me,” he said. After a moment of thought, he turned to Race. “It’s ‘they’. Not he or she.”

Race winced as Stitch wiped away blood from a bad cut on his leg. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“I approve of this one,” Stitch said, glancing up at Spot. “Are all ‘Hattan newsies like him?”

“If you threaten ‘em enough...Spot definitely has,” Race mumbled that last part with a grin.

“What was that?” the said boy asked, a confused frown painted on his face as Stitch laughed.

“I may have to steal this one from you, Spot,” they said with a wink. They checked Race’s head, pressing fingers lightly against a few bruises there.

“Wha- _ow!”_

“Sorry...and don’t worry about it.”

Race’s eyes flitted over to Spot, who was glaring at Stitch.

“Jus’ get ‘im cleaned up,” the leader snapped.

– – –

When Stitch and Spot deemed Race of being fine, Stitch was dismissed. They left, shooting a discreet wink at Race.

“Are you taking me back to ‘Hattan?”

Spot scoffed. “As if. You’re sleepin’ here tonight.” He ignored Race’s protest, getting him up and leading him to a small room. “It’s for those who’re injured,” he explained.

“Fantastic,” Race said sarcastically.

“Least you ain’t sleepin’ out in the streets,” the taller snapped. “Be thankful, Higgins.”

“Don’ call me that,” Race mumbled with a harsh glare.

“What would‘ya rather me call you? _Ant-“_

He was cut off by a sharp punch.

Spot stumbled back, holding his jaw. “What the hell!”

Race’s glare had intensified. “I said to not call me that,” he said quietly, “which mean’ either name.”

The door slowly opened, Flip coming in.

“By the way, Race-“ He stopped as he noticed the situation. “I-I have your cigar.”

He handed it to the Manhattan newsie, who took it without his eyes leaving Spot’s. Then he left, and it was just the two of them again. They sat in silence, hard looks on both of their faces. It was Race who broke first, putting his cigar in his mouth and looking away.

“Why do you even have people following me?”

Spot rolled his eyes, his arms crossed. “‘Cause things like that happen, and you’re on my turf. Kelly would hang me if I let somethin’ happen to you.”

“Is that it? You aren’t...worried, or anything?” Race was baiting him, an eyebrow raised.

“You’re half Brooklyn. ‘Course I’m going to watch out for you.”

The taller newsie let out a laugh. “Even you can’t see it...wow.” He shrugged. “Not surprising.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Spot had stepped closer, the look on his face making Race choose his words carefully.

“The havin’ people watch me, takin’ me in here yourself, Stitch baitin’ you and gettin’ you mad...it all makes sense.”

Spot started to say something, but Race continued, taking his cigar out of his mouth.

“You’re in love with me, Spot Conlon. And it’s a _damn_ good thing that I like you, too.”

Spot was silent for a minute, processing the words. Then he looked directly at Race, his eyes blazing. He stepped even closer, his hands going to hold Race’s head and pulling his lips to Spot’s.

Race’s mind froze, though his body reacted immediately. He kissed back, arms wrapping around Spot’s neck as hands slid down to his hips, pulling the pair closer.

Race was kissing Spot Conlon, the feared leader of the Brooklyn newsies. And Spot had kissed him _first._

Race’s hand went up to Spot’s hair, fiddling with strands of it as if they were his cigar. He felt his back hit one of the walls, and he winced, making Spot pull away.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning Race’s face. He wanted to make sure he wasn’t hurting him. Especially since Race had just gotten hurt and now he was pushed against a wall.

“Jus’ a little sore,” Race admitted.

Spot silently maneuvered them onto the singular bed, making sure the Manhattan newsie was still okay.

When Race noticed this, he let out a laugh. “Who would’ve though’ you’re actually a softie?”

“Only for you.” Spot rubbed a thumb over Race’s cheek. “...Can I kiss you again?”

“Please.”

The boys fell asleep cuddling, Race’s head resting on Spot’s chest as the Brooklyn leader’s arms were wrapped protectively around him. When Stitch came in the next morning to wake Race up, they weren’t surprised to see the position the other two newsies were in, nor Spot still there.

Money was exchanged between quite a few of the Brooklyn newsies, and Jack Kelly sighed in relief at Race being safe and the two of them finally getting together.


End file.
